


kiss the snow

by lokidreamsinbw



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Jotunheim, Loki's Magic, M/M, Possessive Thor, learns to be more gentle, loki's innocent heart, love blooming slowly, rough warrior thor, strange land, this will have several chapters, this will not be rape or non con, thor keeps loki as his own, warprize loki
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 10:52:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14747465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokidreamsinbw/pseuds/lokidreamsinbw
Summary: After slaying Laufey on the battlefield in Jotunheim, Thor decides to spare the life of Laufey's son and keep him as a war prize, use him for his heart's desire.





	kiss the snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SatansSin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SatansSin/gifts).



> written as a prompt fill for SatansSin who asked me for warprize loki and possessive thor!
> 
> Going to UPDATE this in the next few days guys I haven't forgotten about this fic!

Thor watches the young Jotun prince mourning his father. With his face pressed into King Laufey’s sunken chest, Thor thinks there’s no more fight left in him. Thin neck exposed between the folds of the black and gold collar of his armor, the vertebras showing beneath the skin.

Decapitating him would be so easy, like passing a blade through a ripe apple—sandy _crunch!_ He wouldn’t feel a thing.

The skies are the color of burnt earth. The icy winds help spread the cooling pools of blood across the barren land.

It snowed yesterday. Sitting inside the fluttering tent at the base camp, Thor listened to the weak _thumps!_ Of the snowflakes hitting the taut white fabric and rolling down, as weightless as forget-me-nots.  Not a storm. The snow came down soft and mute—a hymn for the fallen.

Some of it has melted by now and the ground is shiny with trickling water and floating bits of dirty ice.

A sea of fallen helmets catching the cold afternoon light, the engravings on them filled with mud. The sharp scent of magic in the air—smoke and sandalwood—the feeling of it pinching your skin, stinging like small electric shocks. Behind Thor his fallen soldiers—rolling golden spears and torn bright capes.

A hushed sound, like untying a knot in a silk scarf. The crown slips off the dead king’s head. It comes off easily, like a glove slipping off the hand when it’s no longer needed. And it’s as if the last glimmers of life inside the Jotun kept it there, secure behind his ears—and now that death has offered him his hand to take, it fell to the ground. It lands on its side. And for a moment it stays standing, a shiny circle of gold, like some magnificent astronomical phenomenon. And then it’s as if the light is sucked off of it and it tumbles backwards, coming down like a great palace wall and Thor almost expects it to break, to turn to dust on impact. But it doesn’t. It lands in a muddy puddle, spraying droplets of brownish water across the side of Laufey’s face and the Jotun prince’s bony hand.

And the dark-haired prince blindly reaches over to touch it. The way he does it, laying his fingers upon it the way you’d close a dead man’s eyes, makes Thor think it’s not greed living inside him, but the longing for the father he has just lost.

Odin spoke to Thor of Jotunheim. He would say this frozen land plays tricks on you. You venture into it, you lose your orientation, your sense of time. You walk in circles without realizing , moving around the same trees, passing by the same dead caves. Your mind dreams and your body starves and the ice creatures strip the meat off your bones, their warm breath engulfing your exposed ribs.

And Thor thinks his father was right. How long has he been standing there, watching the Jotun’s tears getting carried off by the wind and turning into ice before they touch the ground?

A rustle of fabric.

The prince raises his head slowly, wiping at the corner of his eye with his wrist.

Eyes the vibrant color of a fox’s coat, he blinks up at Thor, gaze laden with sorrow. The way he looks at him, the way his body language doesn’t change and he doesn’t stumble backwards or cowers in fear, Thor comes to realize the Jotun knew he was there, standing over him all this time. The way he kept his neck exposed, his head bent, he’s offered Thor his life to take. Grief has its ways to drive your heart mad.

Thor blinks because he remembers. The Jotun’s name is Loki. A name that feels light on the tongue, like a precious stone or a distant planet sleeping in the silence of space. Father would mention his name in passing in the past. Mentioned it more the closer Thor got to embarking on his battle for Jotunheim’s lands. There existed illustrations of King Laufey in Thor’s study books, yet none of Laufey’s son. As a child, Thor would try to imagine what he looked like from time to time. But Jotunheim seemed so far away then, a place you could never set foot in apart from in a dream in the dead of night when the lashes stick together and the pillow kisses the back of your neck.

A passing thought: Laufey was the head of Jotunheim. Loki is Jotunheim’s heart. When you conquer a land, you conquer all of it—you rule over its sky, you rule over its earth. You take all its gold and resources—they’re yours now. And he thinks, this one is his now, too.

Loki’s eyes change when he spots the intent in Thor’s gaze. His pupils constrict and his lips part, breath visible, powdery white in the cold air.

He shakes his head slowly, leaning back on his haunches, right palm in the slushy snow, the other over his father’s heart.

“I’d rather die by your hand than be touched by it,” he hisses, the wind whipping his hair away from his face.

Thor looks him over, jaw clenched, eyes flashing, “is that so.”

“Lying in your bed, could I ever address you by any other name other than my father’s murderer?” he spits out, voice breaking on the last word.

Thor’s gaze is hard, unwavering, “I would expect you to address me as _my king_.”

Loki lets out a sound that’s both a chuckle and a sob. He looks at him as though Thor has lost his mind.

A slight movement; Loki dropping his hand from his father’s chest to rest near Laufey’s giant hand.

“You’ll never be my king!” Loki declares, the raw emotion making his voice quiver and Thor feels it, this flicker of anger and ugly violence coming to life inside him, scorching the inner lining of his heart.

“I will advise you to choose your next words carefully,” he growls and Loki’s eyes flash, desperate and mad.

“Or what,” he taunts, “you’ll end my life? Do it. I choose death over the feel of your lips upon my brow.”

“Do it!” Loki shouts, lips pulled tight over his teeth, eyes glassy with unshed tears, “send a flash of lightning through my ribs, arrest my heart. Oblivion over the accursed touch of your bloodied hands!”

“That’s enough!”

Thor’s scream storms over bits of broken ice and sticky lakes of mud—turning into a ravenous wind, into the sound of shifting icebergs. A great silence follows.

Another small movement next to Laufey’s body, and it goes by unnoticed by Thor’s who’s tightening his fingers around Mjolnir’s hilt.

Loki moves to kneel in the snow. The light catches on the golden collar of his armor. He looks up at Thor and Thor feels as if Loki is trying to keep his attention on him.

The expression in Loki’s eyes changes. It becomes calm, and strangely victorious. Thor feels himself frowning, puzzled by it.

“If it will not be death by your hand, ” Loki says, “it _will_ be by mine.”

In a flash, Loki reaches inside Laufey’s robes. He pulls out his father’s dagger and with a violent movement throws his head back to slash his own throat.

Thor launches himself forward and smacks it out of Loki’s hand. It goes flying to the right and Loki tries to reach for it, terrified that he’s lost his only chance.

Thor grabs Loki’s wrist–the wet sound of flesh hitting flesh.

Loki exhales sharply, eyes wide like an animal staring into the face of its hunter, and grabs Thor’s hand roughly.

Thor only has a second to register the cold touch of Loki’s skin on his warm skin, before Loki uses his magic.

A burning pain in his hand, unbearable.

Thor lets out a hoarse cry and a curse.

A peculiar sound, like it rains glass shards around them and the next second, Thor’s hand is encased in ice.

Loki stumbles back and Thor hisses because it burns and it feels like his flesh is peeling off the bone.

Thor roars and smashes his hand hard against the ground. On the second hit, the ice cracks and falls away.

A few quick steps and Thor kicks the dagger out of Loki’s reach. It skids across the snow like a bird on water and Loki’s face falls when he realizes the only way to get it will be to run past Thor and he knows that will be impossible.

Thor starts advancing towards him.

Crawling backwards, hands dirtied with mud and blood, Loki uses his magic again. His left hand shoots out and a blast of cold hits Thor’s left shoulder. Ice covers it immediately like a cuff but this time Thor doesn’t hiss. It was a weak hit and the ice cracks and falls away on its own a few seconds later.

Loki tries again. This time the blast freezes before it has a chance to reach Thor. It takes on the form of a blade made of sparkly ice and when it zooms past Thor’s cheek it slashes through the flesh there.

“Ah!”

Thor presses his fingers to the cut. They come away bloody and warm.

Loki doesn’t look victorious. He looks lost.

The next hit misses Thor entirely and Loki stumbles to his feet, starting to back away from him.

Thor feels himself smiling.

He shakes his head.

“Oh no, no, no,” he says, “you’re mine.”

There’s defiance in Loki’s eyes. But it’s overshadowed by fear, by the crude realization that there’s nowhere to go to, no way to escape. Battling the Asgardian soldiers has stripped away most of his strength, while Thor looks unaffected. He looks like he can bring a tree down using only his bare hands. If he’ll want to fight him, Loki wouldn’t stand a chance. Loki doesn’t have a weapon and his magic is flickering from exhaustion and overuse.

Loki trying to put as much distance between them as possible only makes Thor advance towards him faster, heart thrumming in his throat, fueled by anger, blinded by victory and pride.

“Stay away!” comes Loki’s broken cry.

Thor tackles him to the ground.

“Ah!”

They land in a large shallow puddle. At the bottom of it glints a discarded Jotun bracer, silver and heavy—on it an engraving of Jotunheim’s kingdom with all its towers and domes and spiky mountaintops.

Loki’s hair soaks up the water, turning shadow-black and he’s thrashing in Thor’s arms.

Repeated blows to Thor’s upper body from Loki’s elbows, shoulders and hands. Loki’s legs pushing under Thor’s twisting like a snake to try and haul himself backwards, out of Thor’s reach.

Loki’s wet hair whips across Thor’s face and the weak blows to Thor’s neck and cheeks sting.

When he’s had enough, Thor grabs hold of both Loki’s wrists. They’re thin and cold in Thor’s grip and Thor starts tugging on them to yank Loki up to his feet, his breath warm on Loki’s face and hands, his eyes taunting _you can’t fight me, why even try._

And then, a crackling in the air. An icy chill running down Thor’s spine. The sudden feeling of pins and needles attacking his face and exposed neck. The feeling of Loki using his magic in close proximity.

Thor manages to give him a warning glare before, with widening eyes, Loki’s body shrinks abruptly in Thor’s arms.

Thor’s fingers close around air because Loki’s wrists are gone and it’s the dusty flutter of wings as a black crow flies past him.

Thor jumps up to his feet and starts chasing it, adrenaline crackling in his fingertips.

The crow flies low. The wind passing under its wings makes them flutter like paper.

It’s flying as if it’s injured and Thor runs faster, boots crushing ice and making bits of it scatter in the air, twinkling and sharp.

Thor thinks _he won’t get far_ and the crow’s wings give a weak shake before it lands on the ground amongst torn capes and shields.

Loki’s body grows from it, the wings turning into arms, the feathers into wet black hair.

He continues on foot, running into the numbing wind.

He doesn’t get very far—he stumbles over a fallen soldier, one of his own, and lands hard on the ground with a blood curdling scream. Thor hears the bone snap—like stepping on a twig in the dead of night.

Loki writhes amongst the still bodies, fingers coming to cradle his broken ankle.

He looks back over his shoulder, watching with horror, as Thor moves closer.

The cut on Thor’s cheek burns and it’s the sound of his cape fluttering in large waves behind him reminding him of long journeys at sea looking for lands with chunks of gold twinkling amongst muddy skulls sleeping under the weight of black earth; the wet, dusty scent of stagnant ice, the scent of charred wood and burnt leaves ; the sight of the ossified trees with their pointy branches tearing through the low clouds, huddled together on a bed of white, like quills sticking up from a hedgehog’s back.

He can almost feel the heat of Loki’s heart, beating red and rich in all that cold and swirling fog. He’s attracted to it, craving it like a wolf picking on the scent of blood.

He crouches next to Loki. Looks him over. The fingers wrapped around the ankle are red.

“Run,” Thor rasps and Loki shudders before him, “if you can.”

Loki starts crawling away from him, not taking his eyes off him. He drags himself towards the forest, using his arms and good leg, leaving a hot trail of blood behind.

Thor follows Loki with his gaze, brows low, mouth set in a hard line.

His fingers move to his belt where a collar hangs from an old chain.

Loki cries out as he’s pulling himself up to his feet. He staggers and bends over to shift his weight onto his good leg for a second so he wouldn’t fall over.

The wind carries ice particles and bits of leaves and Loki starts limping towards the trees. He’s moving slow but he’s forcing himself to move faster.

He’s not looking back. Thor knows he’s relying on his hearing. And Thor knows that silence coming from the place Loki can’t see is tricky to him. It plays with his mind, it makes him hope. Thor knows Loki is afraid to look, afraid Thor will still be there, following his retreating form with a steady gaze. And does Loki really believe that Thor will set him free, let him disappear into the mist?

Minutes pass and Thor blinks. The wind hurts his eyes.

Loki is panting in the distance, stopping to lean against an old tree, hand always moving down to touch his ankle.

Thor stands up abruptly.

Starts walking.

Loki’s shoulders tense up visibly. He can hear Thor moving closer.

He pushes himself away from the tree and takes one step forward. Then another.

Thor makes his way through the trees, pushing away scratchy branches, muddy water sloshing around his boots.

He’s close to Loki now. He can see the water dripping off the ends of his hair.

Loki collapses down on one knee.

Thor grabs the collar.

Holding onto it feels like standing in a field when a lightning storm explodes around you.

Loki leans forward, breaths short and pained.

Thor pushes a hand down between Loki’s shoulder blades to keep him still. He applies pressure and Loki lays down on his front, hiding his eyes from him, defeated, and hurting.

“Shh,” Thor says and closes the collar around his neck.

It’s warm skin and silky hair and Loki smells like wild flowers and shadowy twilight.

He stays still beneath Thor’s body, his heart racing between them, feeling the spell inside the collar stealing away the strength of his magic.

With his hand wrapped possessively around Loki’s neck, Thor buries his face into Loki’s hair, chapped warm lips touching just behind Loki’s ear.

Loki lets out a strangled sound and Thor blinks slowly, watching the trees growing like columns of smoke around them.

He wraps an arm around Loki’s front, forearm pressing into his abdomen and picks him up.

He carries him across the battlefield and when Loki asks to say his final goodbyes to his father, Thor lets him.

Kneeling down next to Laufey’s body, Loki draws a line around his left wrist using the king’s blood. The line goes from dark red to black and sinks into the pores like tattooing ink.

“Enough of that,” Thor mutters, worried about the possibility of another magic trick, and, picking Loki up again, heads towards camp.


End file.
